No one had come to Thornburg to demand of him the child who had disappeared from his premises—Baron could read as much in the manager’s expression. Wonderful! Truly wonderful!
“You haven’t had any word yet?” he began.
Thornburg was used to Baron’s ways. He had a friendly contempt for the dilettante young man about town and newspaper writer who could have made a place for himself, as everybody agreed, if he had chosen to do so, but who indulged himself by following his own ill-directed bent, merely because he was—well, because he was Baron—or a Baron.
“Not a word,” he replied, smiling indulgently, as if the matter were really not at all surprising.
Baron read the other’s thought. “But a child like that!” he exclaimed.
“People are sometimes strange,” said Thornburg. “Now, if she had been a trained dog, or a cat with an unusual pedigree, or a horse with power to draw loads—then she would have been hunted up quick enough. But you see, she’s only a child.”
Baron shook his head. He was rejecting all this as inadequate.
“She’s still with you?” continued the manager.
“Yes. I’m hoping she’ll remain with us.”
“She like it there?”